


Sensation

by Fyre



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-28
Updated: 2012-06-28
Packaged: 2017-11-08 19:07:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/446494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Belle reminds Rumpelstiltskin what it is to feel</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sensation

The wax was hot, almost unbearably so, but he only gasped, short indrawn sounds, as she drip-drip-dripped it across his belly. The only light was that of the candle’s flame, flickering over his bare, pale, human skin.

There was something vulnerable to have him laid like that on the bed before her.

She was naked too, but this wasn’t about her. It was about him.

Rumpelstiltskin’s fingers curled into the white sheets beneath him.

“Too much?” she asked in a whisper, tilting the candle and allowing another buttery drop to spill. It spattered on his belly, slid down a little, hardening as it went.

His eyes opened, barely a crack, dark and liquid and flickering with the gold of the candle flame. “I have to remember how to feel as a man,” he whispered. “That means learning all of the sensations again.”

He meant it too.

There were damp stains on the sheets where ice cubes had trailed across his ribs, over his collarbone. Cold. There were still patches of his skin where she had licked the melt water up with her tongue. Wet. She had let her teeth scrape his collarbone ever so lightly, but enough to leave red ridges. Sharp.

Belle lowered her head and kissed his ribs softly, then scratched with her nails, dragging each drying piece of wax from his skin. Each sharp tug drew a small hiss from him. “There are other ways,” she murmured. “Will you let me?”

“Whatever you want,” he murmured, watching her from beneath his lashes.

She smiled against his ribs. “You’ll need to hold the candle,” she murmured, drawing one of his hands up to take the long white tallow. She caught his other hand, added it, then lifted her head to gaze at him. “Do you trust me?”

He nodded.

She was off the bed, little more than a creamy shape in the darkness, but she returned a moment later, and he hissed again, even more softly, when a belt cinched his ankles together. Her hair was cascading around her, and she lifted her face to his. 

“Tight,” she whispered.

His tongue darted along his lower lip. “Tight,” he agreed.

Her fingers skimmed up the sides of his calves, barely brushing the hair of his legs, lighter still over the scar that knots up around his right knee. It would feel like little more than a breath on his skin, she knows. “Light,” she breathed, and leaned forward, and her hair tumbled against his tension-taut thighs. “Soft.”

He made a breathless, strangled sound.

She hid a smile, moving up the bed towards him, her hair brushing continuously up over calves, knees, thighs. She avoided the place she knew he wanted her to go, instead drawing her tongue across the quivering planes of his belly and blew softly onto the damp trail she left.

“Cool,” she breathed, then exhaled, “Warm.”

His hips twitched, lifted, and she stifled a giggle when he ground out, “What about hard?”

“I can’t do hard,” she said, slanting a playful look at him.

The candle was shaking so much between his hands that the flame cast strange shadows over both of them. She leaned closer to it and puffed it out with a single breath, plunging them into darkness.

“Dark,” she whispered impishly, lifting her touch from him completely.

“Belle,” he complained. The candle was plucked from his fingers, cast aside and he reached out blindly for her, but she seemed to have vanished from the bed. His heart leapt in a panic until he felt her mouth against his hip. How she switched sides, how she moved without him noticing, had to be some higher form of magic. She could always surprise him. No human should ever have been able to do that.

Her hand closed around him and he was almost ended there and then when she purred, “Tight.”

He took ragged breaths through his nose, one hand tangling into her hair. “You did that already,” he said hoarsely, then groaned aloud when her hand closed more firmly.

“Tight…er,” she said with a breathless giggle. Her thumb skimmed over the moisture already gathering at the tip, and all the breath left him in a gust. “Smooth.”

“Belle…” Rumpelstiltskin groaned again. If his legs weren’t bound, if he didn’t know she was up to something, he would have been up, had her in his lap in an instant. But she had him bound, and she had a plan, and suddenly, delightfully, shockingly, she kissed him.

By God, he wished he had the candle.

She had never been bold enough when there were lights.

“Soft?” she whispered, then kissed again, then slowly, deliciously, torturously, licked.

Words didn’t matter anymore. He clamped his other hand over his eyes, struggled to remember how to breath, and let his imagination run at the thought of the look on her face as her mouth was opening, and she was slowly lowering her head over him, her hair all over his belly and thighs and words were gone. Her tongue was moving, little laps, long strokes, and her hand was there too, and her teeth, and his hips twitched and jerked, and he was whining like a kicked dog, squirming.

“Belle, please!” He felt rather than heard the giggle and whimpered, pressing his head back against the pillows. “Please!”

Suddenly her mouth was gone, and her hands too and he was untouched in the darkness.

“Do you feel that?” she whispered. She was a witch. A cruel, teasing little witch. “Do you know what that feeling is you’re feeling right now?”

“N-no.”

Her hands were at his face, her knees on either side of his hips and her lips were to his, stealing his breath. “Desperation,” she whispered. “Do you feel human yet?”

He tried to capture her lips, tried to arch beneath her, his hands trying to catch a woman who moved like quicksilver. “Yes!” he cried out into the darkness. “For God’s sake, Belle! Have mercy!”

A match crackled to life, and she was standing by the bed, smiling. “Told you,” she said, picking up the candle and relighting it. She set it back in the candlestick, then crawled back towards him across the bed. “What do you want now? What do you want to feel?”

Rumpelstiltskin reached out to skim his fingers up her nearest arm, from inner wrist to elbow, circles meandering on the skin. “You,” he whispered. “Only you.”

Belle leaned down to claim a kiss. “Right answer,” she whispered, draping herself along his chest. The press of her thighs to his hips were warm. The knees to his ribs were hard. The hand in his hair was gentle. The mouth on his was hungry. Her body slipped, soft, smooth, warm, wet, and at last tight about his.

Rumpelstiltskin tangled his hand deep into her hair, kissing her as deeply as she buried him within her. He could barely move, could barely breathe, could barely think, but none of that mattered in the face of the woman, the beautiful creature, moving above him.

Her breathing grew staggered between trembling kisses and she arched back over him, golden in the candle light, a living sprite, and pulled his hands to her, one to her breast, one sliding down her belly, and he found a thousand new sensations, soft, warm, hot, trembling, slick, throbbing, and she was panting and sobbing softly, happily as she moved and moved.

He couldn’t last long, didn’t last long, but he would not, could not stop touching her. Her skin was slick, shimmering with perspiration, and he moved his hand, slipping his fingers to finish where his body had done, and she cried out again and again, tiny, mewling sounds that grew higher and softer and more breathless with each stroke of his thumb.

When she caught his wrist, her nails biting hard, and she uttered a small, desperate cry, he knew he would never need ice or candles or any such things again.

She could be every sensation and more.


End file.
